Murder and the Muse
by ThePet
Summary: Suffering author Oliver Meyers has a problem: he cannot create an original character. Enter the greatest literary detective of all time, in Muse form, to give some inspiration.


The Adventure of the Suffering Author,  
  
or,  
  
Murder and the Muse  
  
A Silly Sherlockian Story  
  
There is nothing so frustrating for an author as having not a single idea. Such was the thought I contemplated, sitting before my typewriter and its single, imposingly blank sheet of paper. The more I stared at that empty page, the more it seemed to mock me: what kind of writer are you, it said, who can't even think of a name for his character? For such was the current problem. For many years I had made my bread and butter through writing mystery novels. My detective had become, however, old and tired, and I had decided in the best manner of crime writers to murder the old devil in some unusual and original way. This task accomplished in my last book, I found to my despair that without the kindly (if dull) presence of Theodore Lambert (for such was the sleuth's name) I was devoid of inspiration.  
  
Theodore had been a great source of self-actualisation and intellectual development for me when I first began writing. The financial recompense was not without consideration in itself, for Lambert, restricted as he was, has been popular and therefore lucrative. But I was an author, an artist, a creator - how long could I stand the infuriatingly limited plots and decreasingly sensational deductions of my own personal Frankenstein's Monster? For such he had become, and thus my fear that Theodore Lambert, Private Detective, might follow me to the grave.  
  
I had liked him immensely in the first book, Death by Candlelight. His down-to-earth capability was as comfortable as any old slipper. But dear old Theo had become simply too realistic for my liking. He was a family man, wife and two daughters; he wore tweed and corduroy, he drank whisky and smoked an occasional cigar after dinner. He was intelligent, kindly, harmless, and as dull as ditchwater. I had become deeply sick of his presence. He had seemed to loom over me as I described, with great relish, his untimely (though it couldn't have come too soon for me) death in the final Lambert book, The End of the Road. I had contemplated throwing his entire family into the North Sea in some bizarre transport accident but my editor considered this rather melodramatic and bloodthirsty. The truth was, I was equally disenchanted with Theodore's patient wife Marjorie and his sweet adoring daughters. If one of the daughters had become a prostitute and the other an opium fiend, my interest in the Lambert family might have been sustained for another five hundred page load of drivel. As it was, I was ecstatic to finally see the back of my hapless creation.  
  
Unfortunately, I had not foreseen the appalling drawback that would follow my murderous act. I had decided that the relief of killing Lambert would make up for the discontent of the public and my publisher. I had also determined that my next book would be the greatest yet, an opportunity to show what Oliver H. Meyers was really capable of when he put his mind to it. I had outgrown Lambert, he had begun to stifle me - now I was free to write my masterpiece.  
  
There was just one problem: I had no inspiration. Ah, I had some material - plenty of ideas about complicated murder plots and the usual police inadequacy, but nothing particularly brilliant or original. I knew that writing anything other than a detective novel was outside my area of understanding, but I was determined to write a good detective novel this time. My difficulties were in terms mostly of criminal - I had thus far been incapable of creating a realistic one - plot, and detective.  
  
I had read since my childhood probably thousands of mystery novels and stories, seen dozens upon dozens of plays in the genre. I had devoured the works of Poe and Doyle and Christie and Sayers, and every other good writer in the field. I had struggled through the most obscure and bewildering works of fiction, I had read detective books that were brilliant, terrible, pithy, boring, bizarre, pornographic, and humorous, both deliberately and otherwise. But I had never once read a book in which there was no detective. One cannot write detectiveless detective fiction; hence my problem. With Lambert dead I had no detective. And with all my experience and knowledge, it was utterly beyond me to create another.  
  
Certain aspects of the problem were clear to me. I knew from my reading and writing that certain types of detective were popular; certain traits were essential. Dimwits whose sidekicks had more intelligence than they did not get very far. Generally private operators were preferred to police officers. Historical detectives were acceptable as long as the crimes were sufficiently simple but bloodthirsty to appeal to the modern mind. If the detective were foreign, or eccentric, or even a mildly neurotic woman- hating drug abuser, so much the better. There was something in them to appeal to the public imagination. People had approved of damned Lambert because he represented family values, old fashioned courtesy, comfortable rural living. Lambert appealed to little old ladies and Christians and purists and prudes, and people with little or no imagination. Lambert was boring. There was no way that I would bring the swine back. He already haunted me. I needed a new detective: someone dynamic, exciting, brilliant, eccentric, and preferably single. Someone to appeal to a new generation of discerning readers. Someone to give me the type of immortality I desired, and through whose adventures I could live vicariously.  
  
I had based Lambert on my father; it's no great secret. My father was a wonderful man but he failed entirely to be interesting in the literary sense. I had no one on whom to base my new dynamic character. He would have to come entirely from within my head; unfortunately, and to my distress, I was rapidly discovering that I had no original ideas within me.  
  
Had all my literary progress up until now been an act of unwitting and helpless plagiarism? The thought was a terrifying but not impossible one. Perhaps I was incapable of creating an original plot or character? Dear God, what would I do? My new novel was no longer simply a way of expanding my literary capabilities and proving myself to a critical public. It was proof to myself that I was a writer, a creator, in my own right. That I could, after all, write an entirely original book, one that would capture the public imagination.  
  
This decided, I still needed my detective.  
  
Three hours later my mind was reeling, my head was aching, and I was still staring at that frustratingly blank sheet of paper. Irritably I got to my feet, and headed for the cool peace of my sitting room. The Spartan look of the room belied both my income and the complexity of my personality; that is, at least, how The Times Literary Supplement put it; in truth I simply could not be bothered to add any more furniture. There seemed little point, living alone as I did in a remote part of the Yorkshire Dales. I rarely had visitors, although kept a long sofa for the purpose - just in case.  
  
Pouring a small glass of brandy and tuning in to Mozart on the radio, I sank into my favourite battered armchair - actually my only armchair, battered or otherwise - and waited for the music to inspire me. It failed spectacularly to do so. I lounged, sipping my drink, waiting impatiently, wondering how on earth other writers got their inspiration. Eventually I picked up my notebook and a pencil, poising the latter over the former, and decided to change my approach.  
  
For the past few hours I had attempted to create a persona for my detective. This proving a rather too Herculean task for eight in the evening, I decided to concentrate specifically on his modus operandi, as it were. What were his methods? Was he a psychologist or a footprints-and- cigar-ash man? A mixture of the two? How did he gain his impressions? Deduction? Reflection? Meditation? Spirit guides? Mind-altering drugs? What on earth could I do to the chap to make him original?  
  
One thought occurred: make him a woman. But female detectives are nothing new, they have been done, and besides I did not feel ready for such a feat. To write effectively about a woman was something I felt to be currently out of my literary and psychological league. What, then? Make him an alien? An ex-criminal? A homosexual? An American? My head began to swim. This was impossible - impossible!  
  
Thus a change of approach was clearly indicated. It occurred to me that I should give up trying to psychoanalyse a non-existent dick and simply attempt a physical description. It would be a start, after all, and perhaps his physique and physiognomy might give me some ideas about his personality and method of operating. At the very least creating his outer appearance would be simpler than attempting to invent a brilliant and original mind.  
  
Thus I concentrated all my powers of description, contemplating adjectives with a vengeance, throwing my soul into producing a mental image of an exciting and dynamic detective. I fixed my gaze upon the long sofa, as an image there began to slowly take shape.  
  
"Aha!" I ejaculated. It was indeed a male, perhaps in his mid thirties, tall and thin, stretched languidly upon my guest-furniture. He had a widows' peak, a dreamy look in his eyes, and a satirical, rather smart-ass smile on his face. He steepled his fingers and eyed me as though I were a particularly uninteresting species of insect.  
  
"Ah - good evening." I greeted him politely, rather intimidated. This was not what I had expected. Immediately my hopes of creating an original character began to dissipate. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as though annoyed by my presence - or summons.  
  
"Well?" An eyebrow arched.  
  
"Well..." I replied, helplessly. "Er...hello. You're not quite what I expected."  
  
"You are not quite what I expected, Meyers. Is this the standard condition for writers these days? Dear me!"  
  
"I'm...I'm really quite a successful writer, actually." I was nettled by his superior air and condescending tone. "I've sold a lot of books."  
  
"I would not argue with you...however, remember that success varies depending on whether one appreciates quantity or quality."  
  
"It isn't my fault that the modern public have no imagination."  
  
"I expect that whatever imagination they had was stifled by your appalling creation. Lambert, was it not? The fellow is really quite insufferable. I was not at all pleased when you reached the decision to inflict him upon us. Far better that the reader should suffer - after all, they are foolish enough to actually buy those dreadful books."  
  
"Really," I said, bristling, "you are hardly in a position to comment. You are not an author. You can't possibly realise the great difficulty of creating..."  
  
"I realise it perfectly well." My obnoxious guest interrupted. "That is why I am here. Had you not suffered this condition (which I believe is called 'writer's block' though in your case it is more or less the normal state of being) I should not have been summoned." This statement was peculiar. Summoned by whom? And how? And why?  
  
"By your subconscious mind, for goodness' sake." He snapped, startling me. "Keep up, Meyers. You should after all be honoured by my presence."  
  
"Why should I be honoured by an hallucination?" I was becoming a little unnerved by this whole situation. It suddenly occurred to me that it was far from an ordinary state of affairs for fictional figures, no matter how distinguished, to be appearing on my sofa. Was I suffering from overwork? Had I drunk too much? No - my glass of brandy was still half full. Insanity, then? Assuming this to be the most likely, I decided that my hallucinations and delusions could have been a lot worse. This was rather cosy, after all, although I did not really care for my companion's lofty tone. In the absence of anything else to say, I offered him a drink. Did hallucinations drink? I asked. He replied,  
  
"Never having been in this situation myself before, I wouldn't know. But I would appreciate a glass of whisky and water and, if you can spare it, some species of cigar." I shrugged, fetched the drink, apologised for not smoking. He sighed a little.  
  
"Listen, Meyers. Do something for me. This is your hallucination after all. I really could do with a smoke." My fuddled mind, thus encouraged, finally hit upon what I should have recognised from the start. I focused my clearly overactive imagination once more, and a cherrywood pipe appeared in his hand. I was strangely pleased by the fact that he appeared to lose a little of his contempt for me.  
  
"Rather a neat trick, that," he remarked, lighting up, "obviously you are more imaginative than I gave you credit for. Now - let us examine in more detail your particular problem."  
  
"Which one...?" I enquired, somewhat guardedly. There were certain aspects of my personal life which I was rather loathe to admit even to an extension of my own subconscious.  
  
"Your lack of inspiration."  
  
"Oh, that!" I settled back in my chair, relieved. "It isn't the plot," I went on, "it's the character. Basically what I have in my head is a detective novel sans detective. That would never do."  
  
"Quite." The smell of strong tobacco was beginning to fill the air. I suppressed a cough and getting up, opened the window a crack to let some fresh night air into the room. With a jolt I realised that my hallucination was increasing in strength - then again, if I could have visual and auditory visions, why not olfactory ones? My visitor was impatient. He cleared his throat to gain my attention - not that he needed have any fear of losing it.  
  
"Meyers, this situation can be readily resolved with a little help from me and a little application from you. You have, in your mind, all the material required to create a perfectly adequate fictional detective. The difficulty is in releasing that information, and arranging it in such a fashion as to create something seemingly original. There is nothing new under the sun; every fictional detective with whom you are likely to make contact has operated before. You need not fear plagiarism in such a situation - all you need to do is extract and develop that which is already within your understanding. Consider this premise, Meyers. Meditate upon it. With adequate reflection, the logical conclusion is elementary." As he was speaking, I felt a sensation rise within me - a feeling I had thought never to have again. My mind was suddenly overwhelmed with possibilities. The Muse had come in the form of battered pipe and resplendent dressing gown - all was not lost, and the night not yet over! My companion had observed the change in my attitude - he smiled benevolently upon me.  
  
"Congratulations, dear fellow! I shall take my leave of you. Remember this evening, my dear Meyers, for its like will not come again. Now goodbye; and good luck." I lowered my gaze in humility, and when I raised my eyes, he was gone, leaving only a fading plume of blue smoke as a legacy. 


End file.
